


Gossamer

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Choking, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: “Are you unwell, Credence?” his father asks him in the morning, the back of his cool hand pressed against Credence’s cheek. His fingers span the length from his lips to his ear and Credence shivers, eyelashes fluttering down over his cheekbones. “You’re a little warm,” Papa says, concern turning his mouth down and forming a fine line between his heavy brows. “Why don’t you stay home from school today?”“Oh – okay, Papa,” Credence says obediently. His hand falls from Credence’s face and his stomach drops. He doesn’t know why – he wants Papa to keep touching him, keep his lovely cool hand soft against Credence’s face. In the wake of its loss he feels hotter and sicker than ever, feverish and trembling.





	Gossamer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_M_Biggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Kitchen Tile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372482) by [L_M_Biggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/pseuds/L_M_Biggs). 



> A birthday present for my darling, bound up in ribbon and red silk.

When Credence turns thirteen, then fourteen, then fifteen, and he doesn’t present, he breathes a tiny little sigh of aching relief. He is null; beta. At last, blessedly normal. His scent remains bland and unobtrusive. He can tiptoe through the house in the early mornings, nuzzling into sofas and jackets, investigating the smells, and he won’t be discovered. His smell doesn’t interrupt the sharp sweet smell of Alpha. He wants to remain like this forever, circling around his Papa like Io circles Jupiter, fluttering and tentative.

_(“Still nothing, Cree?” Papa asks him every few weeks over dinner that Credence has cooked for them. He takes pride in looking after his Papa; warm meals and clean clothes and a glass of whisky ready for him when he gets home in the evenings._

_“No, Papa,” he says, shaking his head. His hair is long and the curls bounce in the lamplight. Some nights, he ties it back with ribbon, because although he doesn’t say it, he knows Papa likes it best that way._

_He pretends not to notice the soft disappointment in his father’s gaze, and pushes his spaghetti around his plate.)_

* * *

 

He’s been feeling funny all week. Slightly sick, a little nauseated, his hands shaky. He keeps dropping things. When Papa came home last night Credence was fast asleep on the sofa, all the lights out, dinner still out on the counter. He barely remembers being picked up and carried to his bed, fingers knotted into his Papa’s cable knit sweater, nuzzling his cheek into the soft wool, breathing in warmth and safety.

 “Are you unwell, Credence?” his father asks him in the morning, the back of his cool hand pressed against Credence’s cheek. His fingers span the length from his lips to his ear and Credence shivers, eyelashes fluttering down over his cheekbones. “You’re a little warm,” Papa says, concern turning his mouth down and forming a fine line between his heavy brows. “Why don’t you stay home from school today? If you’re still sick in the evening I’ll call Doctor Picquery to come visit tomorrow.”

“Oh – okay, Papa,” Credence says obediently. His hand falls from Credence’s face and his stomach drops. He doesn’t know why – he wants Papa to keep touching him, keep his lovely cool hand soft against Credence’s face. In the wake of its loss he feels hotter and sicker than ever, feverish and trembling.

“You just stay in bed, Cree,” his papa says gently, obliviously, standing and smoothing the coverlet over Credence’s overheated body. Beneath the blanket, Credence squirms. “I’ll bring you breakfast. Chocolate chip pancakes, your favourite,” he promises. Papa’s bare feet sound loud against the hardwood floor. The door snicks shut behind him and Credence is left alone.

He draws the covers up to his face, breathes in clean cotton and fabric conditioner. He feels at once exhausted and strangely energized; restless energy buzzes beneath his skin, his hands and fingers trembling. He wants to get out of bed and go outdoors, climb every tree in the garden and run until his legs give out beneath him, chasing the sensation of the wind in his hair. He wants to close his eyes and sleep as the sun sinks through the sky and he’s left like this, curled inside the warm embrace of his soft blankets. His skin might be humming with barely repressed energy, but deep inside him there’s a languid tiredness that’s seeped into his bones.

He takes a big lungful of air, gulping it down and holding his breath until his ribs ache. There is something dark that lingers in the air of his bedroom, something that fills him up from his mouth and nose and tingles as it chases down his noise and spreads through his lungs to his fingertips. He breathes in again, again, until he’s gasping like a landed fish. It smells like rain in a forest, like heavy masculine hunger, like bright eyes and a smile with too many teeth. He craves it.

An unpleasant sensation is building in his gut, like he’s swallowed hot soup and it’s burning his insides. He presses his hands against his waist but it feels like it’s curling through him, scalding smoke spreading down his limbs in horrible waves. It presses uncomfortably into his diaphragm, heavy within his chest. He can hardly breathe. His lungs are crushed inside the serrated edges of his ribs. It rises in an ugly wave, behind his eyes, trailing up his throat and onto his tongue.

He swallows hard. He tugs the blanket about himself, curling up his knees into his chest. There’s a strange, ugly noise as his thighs shift together and he buries his face into his knees; his pyjama bottoms slide against his skin, soaked through.

Credence stiffens. Slowly, carefully, he slides the palm of his hand down his waist, beneath the drawstring of his pants to his hip, his ass. His fingers meet fevered skin, and he scents something dizzyingly, cloyingly sweet. He has never smelt it before, but even so he recognizes it instinctively: a virgin omega’s first heat.

 

He should be horrified. He should be appalled. He is too old to present, past the age where the doctors came to school and inspected them all for omegan traits, held their mouths open and looked down their throats for that characteristic bite pattern, pressed cold stethoscopes against their bellies to listen for the spot of silence where the omegan uterus grows low between the hips. He had gone through the tests but there had been nothing, _nothing_ , that didn’t indicate he wasn’t a plain beta.

His fingertips glide through the slick that coats the inside of his thighs, his skin smooth and soft, and makes a surprised little noise at how nice it feels, the gentle slide of his own palms against tender skin. He rubs up, then down, transfixed by the lovely points of contact. He does it again, pressing hard with the palms of his hands; again, ghosting his fingertips; again, raking his nails; again, again, again. It feels good, to be touched like this, even if it is only by his own hand.

He isn’t horrified. He isn’t appalled.

He becomes suddenly aware of how his cock is trapped between his legs, constricted and uncomfortable inside his pyjama pants. He turns over onto his back, shoving down the waist with one hand and gripping himself tight. He cries out a wordless little cry of pleasure, thumb toying with the head of his dick before he starts pumping in earnest, long hard strokes. His fist smacks against his pelvis and then back up again, and he’s almost dripping – _slick_ , he thinks dazedly, there is _slick_ beading at the head of his cock and sliding down the shaft, soft and slippery between his fingers, turning the noise of skin on skin into something louder and filthier. His ass leaves the bed as he fucks up into his own hand and it feels good – oh oh oh it feels so nice – but not enough – not enough –

With his other hand he ghosts down his body hesitantly, pausing at his nipples to pluck at them like a harp player at his strings, gripping them tight and tugging. The sensation makes him squirm and he repeats it, taking great pinches of areola and skin and pulling hard until a whine bursts forth from his chest, criss-crossing pleasure-pain arcing through him. He repeats it with his other nipple and bucks up until the only points of contact between his body and the bed are his heels and his shoulders and the back of his head. He’s wiggled out of his pyjama pants and they lie crumpled at the foot of the bed. The blanket has slid to the ground. The sheets beneath him are sodden.

But there’s a hunger that’s coursing through him, awful, bitter. It isn’t satisfied with his hand on his cock or his fingers at his nipples. He feels dizzy, the world doesn’t feel right, he feels – _empty._ The moment he realizes that he nearly has to let go of himself, body sinking back down into the bed. His thighs part wider, hips canting. He arches his back, long elegant curve of his spine, grinding his ass down into the bed.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ he thinks desperately. He can’t – he can’t bring himself to –

The hand that was on his cock drags further down, fingers trembling. But all of the reservations in the world could be silenced by the pleasure that’s sparked by the soft sweet drag of his fingertips against his own skin; he’s so slick, so wet, he hardly has to press in at all and his index finger slides into his ass, one knuckle, two, tight and sharp inside his body. He feels himself spasm around it, the own silky vice grip of himself on his hand. His thighs tremble.

“ _Aaaahhh –“_ he hears himself cry, a bitten-off wail that sounds disgustingly loud in the closeness of his childhood bedroom against the backdrop of awful wet noises coming from his body. A second finger slides in, just as easy as the first, and he tosses his head, tendons flickering at his neck and jaw straining. He tries to press further, stretch out his fingers within himself, but there is a constriction of skin and slick. His fingers slide. There is not enough pressure. Angry, hollow hunger roars inside his body and he ruthlessly tugs back just enough to press his ring finger to himself alongside the other two and he jabs forward, sinking in.

His eyes roll to the back of his head as sensation explodes through him, the wonderful heaviness of being stretched open singing inside his bones. _Yes,_ he thinks, delirious, _yes yes –_

He stretches out his fingers, the silky slick heat fluttering against himself. He can feel his own heartbeat through the impossible wetness, electric, nerves sparking like he’s been struck by lightning. He tries to tug out just the barest inch and sink back in and keens high in his throat at the shock; again, again, back bowed and bent almost double as he fucks himself on three fingers, two knuckles deep and aching, crying out. It burns just the barest bit but he relishes it, revels in the sensation of being stretched and being filled up. He struggles, desperate, but the angle is difficult and he can’t quite get as deep as he needs. He feels hollow, still. He groans low with frustration even as he pushes his fingers in as deep as they’ll go.

With his other hand he grips his cock again and gasps, thumb rubbing up along the vein that pulses steadily along the underside, swiping along the place where pre-come drips from him in an echo of the slick that’s dripping out of his ass. The peach-velvet skin of the shaft pebbles up to where it meets the firm, shining head of his cock; he takes himself in hand and feels the lovely rub of friction as he begins to move his fist in long, hard pumps, squeezing over the head and tight along the shaft. Harder, and harder, he’s chasing it, a starburst of pleasure that’s dangling just outside his reach. He jerks himself angrily, almost, fingers inside him fucking up and in and pushing him into his own hand.

This is not enough.

With a desperate, whining gasp, he hauls himself to his knees, shoulder and wrist twisted awkwardly so that he might keep his fingers inside himself. He lines in a fourth finger and sinks down onto it, mouth gaping open and head falling back. As he slides down on his fingers, a heavy rivulet of clear slick runs down the back of his hand, along his wrist, dripping wetly onto the bed.

He kneels there for a moment, breathe bursting forth from his throat in high, keening gasps. Around his fingers, he feels himself fluttering weakly, stretched out. He leans back a little, shoulder straining, and circles his hips experimentally; his fingertips brush something that sends little sharp shocks of pleasure skittering along inside him and he tries again, curling in on himself like a dying leaf. He starts moving the hand on his cock again, and still – he can’t quite – can’t quite –

He raises himself up on his heels and back down again, chasing it, chasing that burst of delicious pleasure that lingers on the back of his tongue like the aftertaste of honey, heavy, thick, cloying. He curls his fingers, rubbing against the swollen walls of himself, trying to chase that glorious stretched sensation, the pleasure that made his limbs shiver and light up his spine like lights at Christmas. He’s rocking hard, now, rising and falling instinctively, his cock slapping against his belly with every little obscene circle his hips make in mid-air. Every time his fingers sink in there is a lewd noise, an obscene little series of filthy squelching noises. Slick runs down his hand. The mattress is probably ruined.

But no matter how he twists himself, how he angles his hand, he can’t get to it again. Every time he drops back down, harder and deeper each time, his walls flutter weakly around himself and he needs more. He needs more. He sobs in frustration and in his mind he sees himself as he is: spread out on the bed in a puddle of his own making, sodomising himself on his own hand and jerking himself off like a cheap whore, filthy and shameless.

Shame crashes through him, a tsunami of ugly dark emotion that sets his stomach roiling. His face burns. The hot, heady sensation of pleasure sours in his throat and tears well up in the corners of his eyes. But he can’t stop himself; he cries out and keeps rocking his hips, his fingers curling and stretching and seeking inside himself even as his eyes begin to overflow and a lump rises in his throat.

“Credence? Are you alright? I heard –“ His door bursts open.

For one long, impossible moment they stare at each other, frozen. Credence’s left hand is still buried knuckle-deep inside himself and his right has a white-knuckled grip around his cock. His thighs are spread wide and sweat gleams at his forehead, his eyes red-rimmed and lips trembling. Papa is still wearing an apron. There is a streak of flour across his cheek.

Papa’s dark eyes skewer him; he feels like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Shame bursts through him but it cannot lift a candle to the awful, terrible, dizzying scent that floods the room. A noise bursts from him, a high cry, a keening whine. He flushes ice cold then scalding hot.

“Papa,” he hears someone say, as if from a very great distance. His chest aches. He has never felt so empty. “Papa, I need you – I need – I need –“ and he’s crying now, properly, great sobs wracking his chest and tears streaming down his cheeks. His face is screwed up and burning. He can’t stop the movement of his hands even as he cries; rivulets of slick slide thick down his thighs. His hand is soaked almost down to the elbow. _Squelch squelch squelch_ echoes in his bedroom, obscene and inappropriate against the buttery yellow paint and the science fair posters.

Papa is staring at him, mouth dropped open. He grips the doorframe with such force Credence can almost see how it bends beneath his grip and he can make out how his Papa’s entire body is shaking, his limbs wracked with tremors. _Touch me, touch me,_ Credence pleads inside his mind. His Papa is the picture of rigid control, every line of his body taut and vibrating with repressed energy as he visibly holds himself back, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. Still, the lovely scent rolls from him and Credence whines again, ending in a full-throated cry, high and pleading. _A mating cry_ , he recognizes, dimly, in the tiniest corner of his mind that hasn’t been completely taken over his heat.

His Papa doesn’t reply and he cries out again, higher, insistent.

“Please,” Credence begs, and he begins to weep in earnest, awful hiccupping sobs and sniffling ugly wails. “ _Please_ , Papa, I need you so badly, please, please, _please_ –!”

The silence yawns out between them and Credence has the sickening, dizzying sensation of standing atop a cliff and looking straight down, the world falling away from beneath his toes.

“Oh, baby boy,” Papa breathes, and the moment is shattered, the splinters of it driving beneath Credence’s nails and jagged through his heart. He steps forward and Credence doesn’t care about the streak of flour across his cheek, about the ridiculous _Kiss The Cook!_ apron. The muscles of his forearms ripple. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt, the buttons at his throat pulled taut. Scent is roiling off him in waves, flooding the bedroom, flooding Credence’s mouth and nose and throat. He gasps it in, eagerly, drawing it into himself and into the dark recesses of his lungs and groans low in his throat, hand tightening around his cock.

“Hands off,” Papa says, and the words strike his heart like a mallet against a bell, reverberating through his mind and bouncing off the vault of his skull.

The words take a second to register, molasses-slow as they drip down the spiraling canals of his ears like a drug. Credence bites his lip, bruise-heavy. He gasps out a breathless little cry as his fingers drag along the sensitive skin of his hole, tugged free from himself with a filthy wet noise. Ever so very deliberately, he spreads his thighs wider and leans back so Papa can see how wide open he is, feel himself clench and flutter weakly around nothing at all.

Papa is staring at him. There is hunger in his eye, a terrible, bone-deep sort of hunger yawning like a chasm. Credence wants to spread himself out before him, a feast to sate his hunger and his slick to slake his thirst.

He makes deliberate eye contact and Papa’s eyes are full black, no hint of golden brown in his gaze. He rocks up onto his knees, lines up four fingers, and sinks back down again.

“ _Unnnhh_ ,” he moans, his head lolling back and exposing the long milky column of his throat. Cautiously, he begins to rock his hips again, his cock bouncing against his stomach with every drop. He whimpers as his fingertips graze his sweet spot again, before his walls flutter maddeningly and he hisses in frustration when the promise of pleasure dances away from him.

The guilt that would ordinarily consume him is entirely absent. He doesn’t care anymore. All he wants is to keep circling his hips, keep rising and falling and sodomising himself with his own fingers, feel the deep beautiful stretch of omega being used. The breath stutters out of his chest in panting little whines, and every time his hips drop back down a noise is forced out of him.

When Papa moves it is with the precision of a tiger, the same rolling, loping grace in his limbs. He stalks forward and Credence feels so vulnerable for the barest of instants – kneeling in the centre of his childhood bed, quivering and heavy-lidded with need, Papa’s presence filling the room to bursting. Credence feels crushed beneath the weight of his eyes, the heaviness of his Alpha scent.

Papa reaches out and grasps his jaw, forces him to look up and meet his eyes. “I told you,” he says, so low and menacing that every hair along the back of Credence’s forearms stands on end, “to _stop_ , Credence.”

He cries out, wordless, but he can’t stop the movement, can’t stop the maddening _more more more more_ of his heartbeat. He spreads out his fingers, stretching himself wider, chasing – chasing –

Papa _tsk_ s in frustration and grasps him by the shoulder, face coming down so they’re forehead to forehead. “You can’t, can you?” he asks, gentle, almost, except his eyes are glittering and his grip is bruise tight. “You’re so desperate, Cree. Wound up so tight all the time, who knew it would take your first heat to make you fall apart like this?”

Without looking, he can tell _exactly_ where Papa is touching him; the sensation is seared into his skin, he thinks, sinking down through muscle and sinew and tendon until it will reach bone and settle there, too, as much a part of him and as eternal as the rungs of his ribs and the notches of his spine.

His mouth feels numb. His tongue is heavy inside his mouth. His teeth don’t feel like they’re secure within their sockets.

“Look at you,” Papa murmurs, so quiet that if Credence weren’t so close he’d be unable to hear the way his voice cracks over the last syllable. “You smell so _good_ , Cree.”

“Pa – Papa,” Credence says, dumb, slack-jawed. “Please – please – I n – I need – “ he’s drowning in a sea of dizzy sensation, of desire and lust and want and _need_ so heavy he thinks he can’t breathe. Unbidden, the tears spring up to his eyes again.

“Oh sweet thing,” Papa croons, rubbing his bristled cheek against Credence’s soft face. “I know what you need, baby. I know. Let Papa take care of it for you, princess.”

Credence sobs out, delirious, and Papa’s hand strokes his hair before rubbing along his cheekbone, thumb sweeping across his lip. His mouth falls open and he tries to suck the digit into himself, greedy, begging for a touch. Papa traces the open circle of his mouth before sinking in, thumb running across the ridges of his tongue. Credence closes his mouth and his eyelashes flutter down.

Papa groans as Credence experimentally traces his tongue along the digit, swirling at the fingertip and then tracing the palm-side lines gently. He seals his lips around the base of it and sucks, once, hard, testing. He likes the way the rest of Papa’s fingers spasm against his face; he does it again, tongue darting out to swipe along the prominence at the base of his hand.

“Jesus, Cree –“ Papa gasps, and Credence’s chest swells with pride. He thinks he could purr like a cat. He tries to repeat it again, leaning forward and sucking in further but there’s no finger left; he whines, but keeps at it, swallowing around Papa’s thumb and flickering his tongue against it. He wishes his mouth were full, his jaw opened wider, he wishes he could choke and drool around this. Abruptly, Papa tugs his hand away. It come free from Credence’s mouth with a wet, ugly-sounding _pop_.

Papa’s hand cups his cheek again and Credence’s mind flickers back to this morning, what felt like so long ago, when he lay in bed and Papa brought him tea and felt his forehead and fussed over him.

“Good boy,” Papa says, and Credence’s lips tilt up into a smile.

He leans into Papa’s hand, turning his face to nuzzle into his broad palm. The scent here is stronger and his noses back along the heel of his hand and up to his wrist, pressing lips and nose to the veins that stand out against the pale muscle. He inhales, slow, deep, drawing in that beautiful dark scent all the way into his lungs.

On the exhale, he moans. Papa’s fingers spasm against his cheek, clenching into a fist, before trailing down. His fingers settle heavy, curled beneath the angles of his jaw, palm heavy over his throat.

Credence’s mouth drops open and he’s breathless, eyes rolling back as Papa’s fingers curl tighter. He’s kitten weak, limp, his hair dripping away from his temples in sweat-sodden curls and his limbs unfurling like flowers in spring. Starbursts fizzle and flash in the corners of his vision and he can feel his stomach trembling, his chest heaving, his hands opening and closing; he thinks Papa could reach right into him, open up his ribs and hang pretty ornaments from his bones.

He wants this, he realizes. He wants Papa to take him and reform him, transform him into something beautiful and new and clean, his marks upon him like a sunset: vicious indigo and dusky violet, edged with delicate swirls of pink and red and yellow, a rainbow of hot colours upon his skin.

Papa’s hand opens.

Credence sags forward and the breath tears through his throat, hands coming up to cup his neck as he coughs, wracking his frame and curling in on himself like a dying leaf. He hardly has a moment to suck in an anxious breath before Papa is crowding him, leaning into him and forcing him down, overbalancing and coming down hard onto the mattress. Papa crawls up beside him, and the lope of his shoulders and the sway of his hips makes Credence reach out, shaking fingers, desperate.

His mouth forms around the word _please_.

And then Papa is there, suddenly, bearing down on him and caging him in. His hands curl at the hem of his pyjama shirt and there’s the sound of fabric tearing; Credence is left naked, shivering, save for the slick between his thighs that glistens in the morning light streaming in through the window. Papa leans in, further, and his lips crash down onto Credence’s and he sobs out. It is not a pretty kiss. Their teeth clash together and Credence’s lip is pinched and he tastes blood in his mouth, but beneath all that his neck is arching and his palms are coming up, hooking around Papa’s shoulders and drawing him close. His hips cant upwards and his back arches and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, sensitive nipples dragging against the ridiculous apron Papa is wearing.

He winds himself impossibly closer, raising his head from the mattress to press up, dropping his knees open. His cock – weeping, swollen, tortured – rubs against Papa’s clothed hip, the delicate skin agonized by the roughness of the fabric. Already sensitive from his own fist, he whines at the drag, at the way his nerves alight and sensation burns through him, pleasure-pain. He ruts up and Papa groans into his ear, snakes one hand down to his hip and stills him so he can rock back against him.

Papa’s cock is heavy and thick and trapped by his trousers. Credence stutters and gasps, trying desperately to arch up. Caught as he is in Papa’s grip, he cannot. He whines out.

“Papa – Papa –“ he says, the words tripping over themselves on his clumsy tongue.

Papa’s hands reach up and back and he fumbles at the ties around his waist, panting against Credence’s cheek as he struggles to tug off his clothes, the apron tumbling to the ground and his shirt following soon after. A button comes free and _pings_ off the floor, rolling across the hardwood floor. He has to lean back to open his belt, _click click_ , and Credence feels a burst of dark and vicious satisfaction when he sees that his hands are shaking.

He shoves his trousers and his dark cotton underwear down in one smooth movement, and Credence’s breath is caught in his throat. He only has the barest glimpse – thicker than his wrist, veins that twist around the shaft like ivy vines, angry dark weeping head, and already the tell-tale swellings of a knot at the base. And then Papa kicks the trousers off fully and he’s back, hands coming up to cradle Credence’s face and leaning down to kiss him again.

Gentler, this time, but no less passionate. Credence opens his mouth instinctively, raising his chin and allowing him access. His tongue sweeps along the seam of his lips, dipping into the corners and seeking, searching, as if he’s collecting up a taste of him. Credence traces his tongue hesitantly with his own and whines breathlessly when Papa chuckles, hands squeezing his cheeks. Credence is keenly aware of the long press of bare skin down his front, the texture of his body hair against his own smooth skin; Papa’s hands dwarf his face, one thumb sweeping again along his cheek. With the other, he winds around to the nape of his neck and settles his fingers there, sunk through the curls of his hair.

He is cool, so wonderfully cool against Credence’s clammy skin and Credence breathes out through his nose. Sparks burst beneath his closed eyelids and the world feels so small, so liminal, narrowed down to Papa and his mouth and the feel of his skin and the press of his cock against his hip and the dark scent that rolls off him in waves. Credence is drowning beneath him, drowning in him. Beneath Credence’s thumbs, he feels him swallow.

He pulls away for the barest instant to press kisses along his cheek, along his jaw, down to his ear. His stubble rasps against his skin and bursts of heat trickle through him at the touch of his lips, molten.

“What – what – _ohhh_ ,” Credence gasps out when Papa gets to his throat, to the spots where his fingers dug in mercilessly. Papa opens his mouth and presses a heavy kiss there and Credence feels it echo all the way to between his legs. His kisses are heavy, open-mouthed, scalding even against his fevered skin; his teeth bite down, his tongue flutters, and Credence can almost feel the blood vessels beneath his skin bursting and swelling, blooming in flowers. No sweet little love bites here; these kisses mark him, claim him, and in their ache he knows he is loved, he is wanted, he is adored.

His hips buck up, and instead of rubbing against fabric he comes to skin. Papa’s hand tightens in his hair and Credence gasps, head drawn back, swan necked. He ruts up harder and the skin of Papa’s thigh and hip is becoming wetter, slicker, wet from the slick that drips from the head of Credence’s cock. He makes little noises of sweet pleasure, hooking his ankles behind Papa’s knees and winding his arms around his shoulders so he can keep doing this, keep frotting against him.

His nails dig into Papa’s shoulders and he feels, as if from a great distance, the skin parting beneath his fingertips.

Papa raises his head from his neck and their eyes meet. Credence’s eyelashes are trembling, wet, and Papa’s pupils are blown dark and wide. There is the faintest hint of golden-flecked brown in the rings of his irises; Credence’s reflection stares back at himself and he sees, for the barest instant, what he must look like – flushed, panting, open-mouthed. Desperate.

Papa presses one last kiss to his neck before raising himself up to his elbows. Cool air hits his front and Credence panics, whining in distress. “No – no, what – don’t go,” he says, struggling to raise his head. “Don’t – Papa, don’t leave me –”

And Papa is there, soothing him, hand at his waist and caressing his flank like a frightened horse. “I’m not, I’m not,” he says, and Credence relaxes by degrees. “I’m going to help you, you’ll see. You’re being so good, Cree. So good for me.”

The hand at his waist drags down. The muscles of Credence’s stomach flutter under his palm.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Papa breathes. If Credence hadn’t been so close to him he wouldn’t have noticed how his cheeks flush and he looks embarrassed, almost. His mouth curves up in a wolfish grin and his eyes glitter. Then his hand reaches Credence’s cock and all of his thoughts fly right out of his head.

Papa’s thumb drags back the skin from the head of his cock, exposing him, heart-shaped, the seam at the head interrupted by pinprick orifice where clear slick is still oozing from him. His body produces so much more than Papa’s; it would be embarrassing, except now it makes the drag of Papa’s hand against him so much sweeter. His fingers tighten around his length and he hardly has to move at all; Credence’s hips buck up of their own volition and he sobs out, fucking up into Papa’s hand. His thumb swipes out to caress the head. Credence’s legs are shaking, the tendons stark inside the hollow bend of his hip.

He feels so small in Papa’s grip, flushed pink and dripping slick over his fingers. Small, and vulnerable, the poke of his bones and the stretch of his skin soft and slight against Papa’s broad bulk. Papa’s muscles shift beneath his skin. Credence thinks of a lake, so still and placid at the surface and yet dangerous below. Dizzying currents sweep him away and he is caught in the net of his palm.

Papa’s other hand is resting easily on the inside of his thigh. He doesn’t need to press his fingers to guide Credence open because he does it himself – spreads his thighs open and wide, tilting his hips, instinctively coming up off the bed. Still, Papa’s fingers are sunken into the soft flesh, nails biting in.

Credence adores this. He loves it. The feeling of his own fingers on his skin was not half as good as this. He’s filled with molten heat, the sweat dripping down his back and slick from between his thighs, sensation coiling and spiraling in his gut and between his legs. But Papa keeps his strokes slow, maddening; if Credence tries to buck up harder he relaxes his grip, until Credence is out of breath and whining, climbing the slope of an impossible peak. _Not enough, not enough, not enough_. He needs more. The hollow hunger from before is back, and he desperately rocks his hips, trying to get Papa to come closer to his hole without saying the words.

“Papa – more – more, Papa _please_ – “

Papa smiles against the soft skin of his hip, and presses a kiss there. His hand comes away from Credence’s cock and he cries out, despaired, until Papa is picking him up by the waist and tugging him upright. “Present for me,” Papa says, and the growl in his voice is so undeniably Alpha that it makes the hair on the back of Credence’s neck stand upright, turns his limbs liquid, allowing himself to be moulded pliant in Papa’s grip. “Come on, Cree. Present for me.”

It’s a struggle to get his arms and legs to obey what he wants them to do. His shoulders have no strength and his elbows buckle, but he manages to roll over onto his stomach and tug his knees beneath his hips. Hauling himself up onto elbows and knees is an effort; he spreads his thighs wide and his hips tilt back beautifully. He’s still stretched out from his own fingers. The air of the room is cold against his slick and against his hole.

Papa groans low in his throat. “Look at you,” he murmurs, and Credence hears movement, shifting behind him before Papa’s hands come down heavy on his ass, framing his entrance with his thumbs. He begins to knead Credence’s cheeks slowly and Credence whines, shaking, shivering. Papa sinks his fingers into the flesh of him, rubbing at the quivering muscles there. He feels himself sink, dropping into a pool of syrup. His head lolls languid against his forearms.

There is so much slick that it’s no work at all for him to pass his thumb over his entrance. Teasing, gentle, just one thumb rubbing back and forth at the guardian muscle.

“More – more –” Credence says, muffled in his hands.

He’s not prepared for the obscene intrusion, one thumb sinking inside him and tugging, worrying, only at the first knuckle until he presses back, insistent, and both he and Papa moan as it slides into him easily. Bursts of sensation course through him, only just satisfying, only just enough. It is a sip of water taken on the hottest day of summer. It does not hurt, but it does not satisfy.

He withdraws his hand completely but Credence does not have time to whine before there are two fingers at his hole, circling, rubbing, and then sinking into him. He feels himself flutter around them and they tug back out and slide back in, so easy, so slick; he whines again, cries out, and then Papa’s mouth is licking at him, tongue tracing his entrance. The fingers inside him scissor open and with the frame-press of fingers Credence realizes what is happening – Papa has a thumb from each hand inside him and he’s parting them, tugging him open and stretching him out. His breath is hot against his lower back.

Another finger. Another. Four fingers, two from each hand, sinking in to the second knuckle and then deeper still, until the rest of his curled fingers bump up against his ass and Credence gasps. He rocks them in, in, in, tugging back just the tiniest bit to allow himself room and then deep, wonderfully deep, stretching out his entrance.

Papa is back at his entrance now, pressing soft little kisses to him, tongue coming out broad and wide to soak him up and taste him, scalding hot at his rim where he’s stretched obscene. His fingers widen, pulling him open and apart, exposing his soft pink rawness. Lightning dances up his spine, static shocks that sting pleasure and make his eyes roll back into his head. The slick makes everything so wet. His thighs are wet, the skin of his ass is cool, even his cock weeps steadily onto the bed.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Papa is murmuring against him, and the movement of his lips against his skin makes Credence cry out.

Credence moans into his hands. It feels – it feels so good, so good –

And then Papa’s fingers pull free from him and Credence is left empty. The absence of sensation is worse than anything he’s ever felt before; emptiness echoes through his spine, through his bones, and he feels the edges of his very soul – his very self – unravel, come apart. He is unmoored, a cloud in the sky during a storm, torn apart by howling winds and rain, a chandelier in the precise moment after the screws have all loosened but the fall has not yet begun. He is going to break – he is going to shatter into a thousand sharp and glittering pieces, he is going to – to –

And then Papa’s hands are around his waist and his lips kiss soft at the nape of his neck and his cock slides up between Credence’s cheeks, one long terrible stroke that makes him cry out, the head of it only just catching at his entrance before it skips past. He can feel every bump, every crease of skin.

“I – I can’t – I can’t knot you,” Papa says, right beside Credence ear, and he shivers from the rumble of the words through his ribs before the words sink in like a stone in his gut. “Cree, Cree, do you understand? I can’t knot you. It’s not – it’s not right – I can’t, I mustn’t –“

 _No, no, no_ , Credence thinks, desperate. He needs a knot. He needs one, he needs one, he needs Papa’s knot like he needs air to breathe and water to drink. He doesn’t care about the scent change, about what people might say when they smell omega overlaid by his own family’s scent. _Slut_ , they’ll whisper about him in the street, and the thought makes him dizzy.

“Papa – Papa, please,” Credence says, turning his head so he can see the bitten flush of Papa’s mouth, the high colour rising in his cheeks. Papa is panting, trembling, just as wrecked as Credence; a little bubble of surprise flitters through him, but he swallows against it and struggles to line the words up in his mouth. “No one – no one will know, Papa. No one will know and it – it’ll feel so good, Papa, don’t you – _ah_!” he gasps as Papa ruts his hips more insistently against him, the head of his cock just sinking in before tugging free and pulling him wide open again. “Oh _God,_ Papa – don’t you want to make me feel – feel good?”

Papa moans, the hands around his waist tightening so hard Credence thinks the fingers might sink through skin and meet in the middle, at his core, wrist deep inside him. The he rears up – his cock slides through the wet mess between his legs – catches against his entrance, and then Papa is shoving in, hard, splitting him open on his cock.

Credence screams muffled into his hands.

He does not give him a moment to adjust, does not allow him a reprieve, just starts working him open with his cock. His spine aches, his hips ache, and Credence tilts back for more, arches his back and presses back, so eager and so greedy for it. He feels full, so full, but Papa is not yet fully seated within him; he presses forward, relentless, _in in in_. His fingers cannot compare to this, to this heady wonderful sickening stretch of fullness, all the way up to his throat.

The slick allows him to slide in, not easily, but he carves a space for himself in the hollow of Credence’s body, sinks through him to open him up.

He can feel Papa’s heartbeat.

When he bottoms out, hips meeting Credence’s ass, he feels like he’s going to break apart all over again. But this time he welcomes it. White heat is spreading through him. He thinks he knows what a shooting star must feel like as it tumbles through the stratosphere at night, burning, beautiful, dying.

Papa presses another kiss to the back of his neck, before pulling out a little before coming back, hips meeting his ass heavily, as if he can’t bear to leave this space inside Credence’s body that is for him alone. He does it again – again – again – steady, deep, hard, and Credence rocks forward on his knees, gasping, eyelashes fluttering wet on his cheeks. Papa grinds in, relentless, crowding him, caging him, and Credence whines out when he catches something inside him – the spot he’d tortured with his fingers – his cock grinds against it and Credence screams, vision sparking to white and he feels himself dissolving, ink in water.

Papa makes a breathless noise of satisfaction and cants his hips – again, again, he presses up and into the spot inside him and Credence is sobbing, shoulders crumpling down and his face comes down to the mattress. Papa fucks him harder, harder, brutal, unrelenting. His left hand digs into the flesh of his waist. With his right, he snakes up Credence’s back and grips his hair again, fingers sunk deep against his scalp. Credence arches back, back bowed, forced open. Papa’s palm cradles his skull, and the lines his nails have raked into his skull burn sweetly every time Papa’s hand grips tighter.

He is a vessel, a vessel for pleasure, he thinks druggedly. The thought bursts through him like a lightning bolt, jagged and burning, every pathway and nerve in his body flayed open and laid bare before sensation, grounding him through his hips and through Papa’s cock. His mouth is open, saliva pooling on the sheet beneath his mouth, little breathy whines knocked from his lungs every time Papa’s hips press into his, every time his hips meet the flesh of Credence’s thighs with a heady smack.

His breath is coming from him in soft gasps, pants and whines. He feels like he’s soaring up, sinking down, tumbling from a great height and the world wobbles on its axis as his head tosses back and he sucks in a breath. His world is constricted, confined to Papa and this perfect sensation of fullness, of roughness, of being used. Papa groans into the nape of his neck, hand coming free. His hips are stuttering, beginning to lose their rhythm, and with every pull of his hips the beginning of his knot catches at Credence’s entrance.

 _In, in, in_ , Credence wants it _in_ – he pushes himself up to his hands and rocks back, harder, trying clumsily to match Papa, squeezing around him, milking him. He whines and gasps, the knot swelling – his rim catches on it and he adores it, adores it, pleasure-pain as he’s stretched out like he needs to be, perfect, _perfect_ –

Papa pulls out almost fully and then slams back in and groans in his ear, his hands curling tight at Credence’s hips, ten perfect impressions of his fingers bruise-deep. He’s scalded, burning, the inside of him filling up and growing heavy as the knot swells impossibly wide – enormous and terrible, locking them together – and come floods him. His fingers scrabble weakly at the sheets and his eyes roll back into his head; the knot presses against him perfectly, wonderfully, and his legs are shaking and his vision flutters white, stars in his eyes –

Credence comes with a whine, morphing into a full-throated wail of agonized pleasure as his hole tightens down, fluttering against Papa’s cock and his knot; Papa groans, his teeth coming down hard on the back of his neck and Credence is pushed to impossible heights. Weak omegan come spurts from his cock, but it’s nothing compared to the sweetness inside him: he is burning, burning, the world is spinning around him and there is nothing except his bite, his knot, and the gasping breaths of Alpha scent in his lungs.

He shuts his eyes.

When he comes back to himself, he and Papa are still locked together but Papa’s moved them onto their sides and Credence’s head is pillowed with his arm. His hand strokes down his side, slow, gentle. Inside him, the knot is still swollen, pulsating slowly with the rhythm of Papa’s heart. He is plugged impossibly full. With each breath he thinks he can feel Papa’s come sliding around the inside of him, heavy and slick.

He does not want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about the consequences of this – not just a knot, but a binding bite, still raw and bleeding at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t want to think about what people will say, how they’ll look at him. He squeezes his eyes tighter together and burrows back against his papa, determined to sleep a little while longer.


End file.
